


Retracing Footprints

by goodnight



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Deathshipping, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Reversible Couple, Road Trips, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Switching, Thiefshipping, Tourism, Trust Issues, looking for closure, occasional rom-com
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-05-14 04:29:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14762612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnight/pseuds/goodnight
Summary: Ryou takes a gap year to travel and process the Spirit’s departure. He bumps into Malik Ishtar, who’s dealing with a few issues of his own. And maybe some schemes.(In which Ryou and Malik go on an international road trip, and Ryou’s perception of Malik is colored by memories left behind by the Spirit of the Ring.)





	1. CAIRO

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I didn’t think I’d be writing YGO fanfic again, but here we are! This fic follows the manga with occasional mentions to Dark Side of Dimensions. For the purposes of this piece, the Shadow RPG/Ancient Egypt arc took place about a 1.5 years after Battle City, one month before the Ceremonial Duel, and a few months before Aigami entered the scene. I will be keeping the Ishtars’ Arabic/Egyptian names. Emphasis on Thiefshipping and Angstshipping in this fic, but there’s some ship overlap with the Maliks and Bakuras. 
> 
> As for warnings, it starts out fairly cute, but it’ll get a little more fucked up as we go along. Also, since it’s Thiefshipping, there is that... 3000-year age gap between Yami Bakura and Malik. If you read this far, and we’re on the same page, then please enjoy!

| CAIRO |

 

Ryou Bakura has one vivid memory of his first trip to Cairo:

The air was hot and dry. He had a bottle of mango soda in his hands. It was cold from a fridge in the store, and there was something precious about each drop of water that perspired from the bottle: shiny and clear, gone so quickly, leaving round little footprints in their wake. Ryou stepped on every one of them. He played this tedious little game until his father came out with a map and directions.

Ryou was happy. He didn’t have anyone’s blood on his hands. He didn’t have the Millennium Ring yet.

Ryou is now eighteen, and he’s not sure how he feels. He doesn’t have the Ring anymore.

He also has no delusions of finding the same shop after all these years, but he hopes he’ll at least find the soda. If he’s lucky, he’ll also come across some sense of direction in his life, now that it’s all his again. That would be nice.

His Arabic is nowhere near his father’s level of fluency, but the Cairene next to him on the plane seemed amused by what few words he knew. His English is good, though, and it’ll get him by.

At least, that’s what Malik says.

(By some shocking stroke of luck, Ryou had bumped into Malik Ishtar at the airport. It was shocking because Malik is the one Egyptian Ryou knew personally without a vendetta tying them together. And by personally, he meant  _almost_ _personally_. The Spirit of the Millennium Ring knew Malik, so therefore Ryou knew him by proxy. Finally, whether it was good luck or bad luck _also_ depended on how one interpreted the situation, which was Malik practically mowing him down at baggage claim with an oversized purple suitcase.

“Bakura?” Malik had said in English, grinning, “What are you doing here?”

Ryou smiled weakly, looking down at his crushed foot. “H-hello. Please. Your luggage…”

Ryou still remembers the look Malik gave him: startled, as if he caught himself swearing in front of a child. Malik had switched to Japanese, “Oh. You must be the landlord.”

Struck by the Spirit’s nickname for him coming from another person’s mouth, Ryou barely registered Malik lifting his suitcase off his foot. “You’re… right.”

And that’s how he ended up following Malik through the Cairo airport.)

-

Malik Ishtar has a great smile, almost as dazzling as the gold earrings flanking his cheeks. Ryou thinks he looks charming, but with a gaze that pierces like a knife; the kind of person who rarely needs to introduce himself twice—unless he was being deceptive the first time, of course.

He asks Ryou in Japanese, “What are you doing here in Egypt, Ryou-san? I would assume you had no more business here after the Ceremonial Duel. We didn’t get a chance to talk then, did we?”

That was only a few months ago. A lot has happened since. Ryou graduated, along with Yugi and the others. It’s strange how time marches onward one day at a time, without any blackouts or gaps in his memory. Well, mostly. Ryou hadn’t experienced any level of consistency since his first trip to Egypt, so his life quality after the Shadow RPG is honestly an improvement.

“It’s okay. You can keep calling me Bakura,” says Ryou, and he catches Malik’s grin quirk. Ryou knows Malik is going to conflate him with the Spirit of the Ring anyway, but it doesn’t matter. Ryou isn’t planning to spend much time with him. They only met today out of coincidence. “I’m taking a gap year to travel before thinking about university.”

Current plans, future plans. They missed the opportunity for proper introductions somewhere in there, which is kind of a shame but also not a big deal. Ryou feels like he’s known Malik for years, and not just as an international acquaintance that he’s met maybe thrice. There’s a familiarity to Malik that Ryou doesn’t feel very often outside his friend group. If he were to put his finger on it, it would have to be because the Spirit knew Malik, and that sort of familiarity always seems to seep between two minds sharing a body. Again, Ryou must have grown accustomed to Malik by proximity. Perhaps that’s why the small talk feels deeply unsatisfying.

Malik, too, seems to notice the awkwardness. He looks like he wants to ask Ryou questions as they wheel their luggage down the lobby, but he instead says, “Cairo is a great place for traveling. Beautiful city. Great food. I’ll show you around.”

They head outside to the taxi queue, and the dry heat makes Ryou sweat—that and sheer alarm at Malik’s suggestion. But Ryou smiles calmly. He says, “No, no. I couldn’t put you out like that.”

He hopes Malik reads the atmosphere, but it’s unreasonable to expect an Egyptian to follow Japanese social customs in Egypt. Malik cuts the line and nabs a cab almost instantly. He’s got both his and Ryou’s suitcases in the trunk before he even gives Ryou an answer. When he does, it’s a cheerful, “It’ll be fun.”

“Oh,” says Ryou, and when Malik shoves him into the back of the car, Ryou catches a whiff of his cologne. It’s faint, but it bleeds into his brain, gently tugging memories to the surface.

They’re a mess.

He suddenly remembers the feel of Malik’s grip, and a phantom pain sprouts in his left arm. He remembers he met Malik very briefly in Domino City, before he somehow made it to the quarterfinals. Malik’s voice had been soft, but his hands had been rough. Ryou knew him as Namu at the time. He had dragged Ryou to his motorcycle—that’s _right_ , Malik has a _motorcycle_ —and then it was a whirl of a ride to Jounouchi and Anzu at the aquarium. No helmets. Ryou had been hurt, and he had a stolen duel disk around his wrist…

Ryou remembers talking to Malik, but he doesn’t remember what they said. It was an out of body experience, which was typical when the Spirit was in control. His lips moved numbly. Malik’s face had been blurry and his voice fuzzy, sometimes quiet and sometimes so loud that it felt like Malik was in his own brain. They fought a lot, Malik and the Spirit.

Ryou had drifted along, waiting for his turn again. He woke up in a pile of rubble on Alcatraz Island thinking, “I’m hungry.”

Ryou’s memories are a mess, but all the ones involving Malik warn him: _get away._

He looks out the window helplessly as the taxi takes them to downtown Cairo.

-

The real problem is that Malik is magnetic.

To his knowledge, Ryou isn’t being held against his will, but he’s still following Malik down the street all the same, listening to the blond rattle off all the things he could do in Cairo. There a lot to be said about born leaders, and Malik is just that in the same way Ryou is a born follower. It’s the way he talks, the way he gestures, and the way he looks at Ryou—it’s reassuring, like he’s someone Ryou can trust to take care of any situation.

It makes sense that the cagey Spirit was drawn to him. It also makes sense that they butted heads. But there was a friendship in there, Ryou is sure of it. He thinks that the Spirit would have liked to see Malik again in Egypt, if he had still been around.

For all the time Ryou and the Spirit spent together in the same body, the other soul was a mystery to him. Ryou knew his past, his anger, his vengeance, but he knew precious little about the Spirit as a person. He was a presence that came and went as he pleased, and Ryou was just a passenger strapped in for the ride, with occasional commentary from the conductor.

Ryou had his list of grievances, of course, a very long one that he spent years putting together, but in end, it didn’t matter. By the time Malik was a blip in their lives, Ryou had taken some comfort in knowing that there was someone within him who could handle every situation Ryou was too weak for. He never told anyone that. He knows it’s a sad outlook. Stockholm syndrome, he supposes.

“Hey, Malik? This doesn’t look like the hostel I booked…”

“This isn’t a hotel. What kind of man would I be to have my friend stay at a hotel in my own city?” Malik says, walking into a tall apartment complex lined with trimmed palm trees.

 _Friend_. That word is Ryou’s weakness. The idea of Malik considering him a _friend_ is kind of thrilling because Malik swept into Domino like a hurricane, and Ryou may or may not be extremely drawn to strong personalities. He wonders what sides Malik saw of him, of the Spirit—of both of them. And well, although curiosity killed the cat, Ryou survived his previous encounters with Malik. He doesn’t mind trusting Malik again, especially now that the man considers him a _friend_.

“No, no, you’ll stay at my place,” says Malik, pressing the elevator button.

And as it turns out, Malik’s place is the penthouse suite.

“My home is yours,” Malik says cheerfully as Ryou fumbles with his shoes.

“Cool,” he says and trips over himself all the same.

The furniture is clean and simple, each piece a work of dark wood and cream-colored cloth. But the thing is, whatever the intended theme of interior design was is lost to the treasure trove of _stuff_ laden atop and around it. Thick woven blankets lie strewn across the sofas, explosions of color on the understated cream pattern. Framed postcards of European paintings dot the walls, and carved masks from various African regions decorate the living space. Ryou sees Japanese manekineko cats smiling next to Australian Aboriginal figurines. It’s like a late 20 th-century version of a Victorian Englishman’s sitting room.

“Wow,” is all Ryou can say.

“When I see something I like, I have to have it,” Malik explains, a little self-consciously, picking up one of the lucky cat statues. Ryou notices a familiar museum logo on the bottom, and he remembers that Battle City took place around the same time as the East Asian exhibit at his father’s museum in Domino. Upon closer inspection, most if not all of Malik’s stuff seems to be from giftshops.

“You visit a lot of museums,” says Ryou. He’s a bit jealous. He didn’t get a chance to go to the Cairo Museum on his last trip.

“It’s the new family trade,” says Malik with a grin, and Ryou is thankful for the lead into a new conversation.

“Oh, how are your siblings?” He glances about and holds his backpack uncertainly. It seems disrespectful to leave such a gross old bag on literally any piece of the beautiful furniture. Even the floor is a fine polished mahogany. It deserves to be left undisturbed. Plus, Ryou is a little worried that either Rishid or Isis will pop out from around a corner and judge him for his shabby travel clothes while he’s standing next to Malik, who always looks sharp. “Do you, umm, live here with them?”

“That’s the idea.”

Ryou sees Malik rummaging around in the kitchenette and takes his backpack over to the counter. He passes a trashcan filled to the brim with empty takeout boxes.

Malik turns the knobs on the stove like he’s not sure how they work. Judging from the kettle, Ryou can only assume he’s trying to make tea. “But Isis has another apartment closer to the museum she works at. I only see her a couple times a week,” Malik says and takes a step back from the stove, satisfied with its settings. “Rishid is in Dubai to oversee development of a new museum, and…”

And Malik, the baby of the family, is all alone in an apartment that’s too big for him.

“I see, so you’ve kidnapped me to keep you company,” says Ryou, chuckling. “You could’ve just said that from the start.”

Ryou realizes too late that he might have hit a sore subject regarding Malik’s history with him and his friends, but fortunately, Malik seems to thrive at the opportunity to be ridiculously dramatic.

“Ah, you’ve discovered my plans after all!” he says and pulls a large mixing spoon from a drawer. “But you are no match for my Millennium Rod!”

Ryou doesn’t miss a beat. He grabs a yellow plate from a drying rack and declares, “Ha- _ha_ , as if I would come unarmed! I, too, have a Millennium Item— _the Millennium Ring!”_

Malik is clearly delighted by Ryou’s response. He has the biggest grin on his face, and Ryou can barely contain his giggles. They hold their poses for four seconds before cracking up—maybe a little too hysterically, but whatever tension lingering between them dissolves, and it feels good to laugh it off.

“Okay, okay. Listen. I did _not_ bring you back here for any diabolical purpose, I promise,” Malik says, wiping at his eyes carefully, but he still manages to smudge his eyeliner. “What’s the phrase, uhh—I’ve turned over a new leaf.” He twirls the spoon slowly, almost apprehensively. “And I’m sorry for everything I did to you and your friends in Battle City. I really am.”

“I heard you did some bad things, and I accept your apology,” Ryou says cheerfully, setting the plate back in its proper place, “but that’s easy for me because I don’t remember any of it.”

“Right, thanks to the Spirit of the Ring,” Malik says, and Ryou can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s been dying to have this conversation all day. “Did he…?”

The kettle starts squealing, and its urgent wail steals Malik’s attention.

“Oh, the… thing,” Ryou says unhelpfully.

“Right, yeah,” Malik replies, setting down his spoon.

Ryou doesn’t answer the question that Malik doesn't ask, and Malik doesn’t push it.

-

He does know of the mango drink Ryou is thinking of. There’s actually a six-pack of it in his fridge, which is a barren wasteland of condiment packets and baking soda.

They break into the cans on the coffee table. They forget the tea on the counter.

“ZamZam!” Malik says gleefully. “This was the first soda I ever had, the mango one. It’s my favorite. Oh, wait—ice. We need ice.”

Malik hurries to the freezer and back. Ryou watches him struggle to free the ice cubes from their tray and has a damn hard time reconciling this Malik to the one who had manhandled him in Battle City. Ryou does forgive a little too easily. The Spirit had always called him “a happy-go-lucky idiot, through and through,” and Ryou had to be, to have put up with the Spirit for as long as he did. (The Spirit had a few words for Malik, too: “pretty idiot that’s barely smarter than the average idiot.”)

A buzzer rings, and Malik looks up from his task. “Oh, it’s her. She must have seen us come in.”

“Your sister?” asks Ryou.

Malik gets up and wipes his hands on his pants. He grins sheepishly. “The landlady.”

An elderly woman exits the elevator with a covered bowl, which Malik takes graciously. She pinches his cheek, and they have a conversation that Ryou recognizes as the universal and often one-sided “Are you eating enough, you’re so skinny, I have a granddaughter that’s around your age” chat. It takes fifteen minutes for Malik to talk her back to the elevator, and when he turns back around, flustered, Ryou has already returned with dishes and utensils from the kitchenette.

Malik uses the wooden spoon to serve Ryou, who pokes at the food. “There’s no meat.”

“Traditional Egyptian kushari should _never_ have meat,” Malik mutters while serving himself, offended. “What is it with you two and _meat?"_

“Us two..?” Ryou stops.

They look up at each other, then quickly back to the food. They eat silently.

Ironic how Ryou feels haunted by a presence that he knows is no longer there. But Malik doesn’t know. At least, he hasn’t confirmed it. Ryou should tell him, but the right moment seems to have passed. And even then, it was only sixty percent right.

“Well, _I_ always cooked my meat properly,” Ryou mumbles through a mouthful of lentils, “so that’s not so bad.”

“Disgusting.” Malik gags and covers his mouth. “We are _not_ going to talk about about _meat,_ Bakura.”

“I dunno, do you think he was onto something? That raw meat diet seems to be picking up traction,” Ryou says innocently. It’s the same tone he uses when he’s bullshitting Jounouchi and Honda, who fall for it each time. “There’s been a lot of research about how your body needs a reason to produce the enzymes to help digest raw meat, and that in turn boosts your immune system.”

“My Japanese isn’t good enough to follow,” Malik says, squinting at Ryou with a newfound disgust, “but nothing you said sounded correct.”

Ryou laughs, and the conversation flows on. Apparently, the landlady has a soft spot for globetrotting teenage boys who just need a little more maternal care in their lives. She’s been trying to foist her granddaughters on him since the day he moved in. Malik had told her he deferred the decision to his elder siblings, who were always coming and going, and she began to bring food along with the marriage offers.

“But Malik, aren’t you interested?” Ryou asks, popping open another can of ZamZam.

Malik pauses chewing, surprised by the question. He looks at Ryou carefully, swallows, and says, smiling his Namu smile, “Never really felt like jumping at the opportunity. You know.”

Ryou smiles stiffly, remembering the girls who flocked to him at Domino High, whom he sometimes hid from, and says, “I know.”

Talking to Malik feels like being interrogated. In a friendly way. Malik always has full control of the conversation, and everything he says seems to require an answer or agreement. What a dictator. He gives little about himself, and when he does, it’s something Ryou either knows, or it’s been cloaked with words that Ryou knows are not the ones Malik says to himself.

They switch between Japanese, English, and bits of Arabic as their conversation pulses between chatter and lulls. Ryou notices that Malik speaks English mostly in direct statements and commands, and his questions are the same in structure but with a question mark at the end. He speaks Japanese in a similar fashion. His Arabic is a pretty solid Masry dialect, although Ryou notes that his grammar has some strong Coptic influences, which Ryou has only heard from his father’s travel tapes, so he's not sure why he knows that. Interesting. Malik is so very interesting, and Ryou can easily see him as a kingly type of character, maybe chaotic neutral…

Ryou catches himself planning another Egypt RPG. He’s been filing away interesting traits for NPCs since he got on the plane, a habit he never managed to break. Discomfort rustles in his heart, but he brushes it aside. It’s a harmless hobby, now that the Spirit is gone. 

Ryou talks about his father instead.

“…Anyway, he’s here now, working out another exhibit exchange program between Domino and Cairo,” Ryou says and drains the rest of his soda.

“I see. Then, your father will have to go through my sister,” Malik says and crunches down on an ice cube. “I bet he’s actually the curator she’s meeting tomorrow.”

“I was going to meet up with him today,” Ryou blurts out another factoid, unprompted. Malik has a presence that inspires that.

“See him tomorrow. See Cairo today,” says Malik, and he finishes his drink.

Ryou knows that Malik is looking for the Spirit in his words and actions, but he won’t find him. And after a perfectly fun conversation, Ryou doesn’t want to unload something that heavy on his new friend—he especially doesn’t want to _lose_ him. If Ryou doesn’t have the Spirit inside, would the cordial interest Malik showed him all day disappear? Now that he’s seen more of who Malik is, Ryou wants to _know_ more. He wants to know the Malik that the Spirit knew.

Malik jingles the remaining ice in his glass playfully. “Call him. Hang out with me instead.”

What a tempting offer.

-

Ryou calls his dad, half hoping for some sort of excuse, but his father seems pleasantly surprised that Ryou has a friend to spend the day with. When put like that, Ryou can’t help but feel lucky. There was a time when he would have died to have just one fun day with a friend like Malik, and now he has the opportunity to spend it in a foreign city. Fifteen-year-old Ryou would have shed tears at the thought, and the Spirit would have heckled him for it.

When he hands the cell phone back to Malik, he does it calmly. He contains his excitement. Keeps it casual. “Look at that. Your phone’s the same model as Anzu’s.”

“I liked it, so I got one.” Malik smiles, pocketing it. He nods to the door. “Let’s go.”

-

Ryou sees Cairenes peering down at them from their balconies along the Nile. He wants to wave, but he doesn’t dare let go of Malik.  He holds on tighter as the blond zips between cars on his motorcycle. Apparently, the sidecar was destroyed in a wreck earlier that month, which is probably a testament to Malik’s driving. He rides with the cavalier ease of a man who has either no fear or nothing left to fear. And they’re still not wearing helmets.

Traffic is so tight that he keeps hearing Malik mutter “friggin’ herd of buffalo” under his breath in Arabic. Ryou isn’t sure how he himself would know that phrase, but he snickers each time, which seems to encourage Malik to drive more recklessly. They go way too fast, to the point where Malik hops onto the sidewalk to avoid a collision. A man jumps out of their way and hollers at them. Malik laughs as they escape through an alley. Ryou hangs on for dear life. His heart is loving the adrenaline rush.

Cairo hasn’t changed much in the months since Ryou was here last. The Ishtars were quiet and pensive then. Everyone was, even Jounouchi, so Ryou hadn’t thought much of it. Malik kept his distance and let his sister do most of the talking. Maybe he already suspected that the Spirit left long before the Pharaoh. If so, maybe Malik and the Spirit were closer than Ryou had thought. The Spirit always had something to say about Malik, unprompted and full of ire: _who wears that much gold, he’s just asking to be robbed, I can’t believe he doesn’t eat meat, that’s prey animal talk, the fucking water buffalo…_

In hindsight, the two of them must have been pretty close.

Maybe Malik is spending time with Ryou for closure. Ryou will tell him in time, then, but the truth is, he hasn’t even come to terms with it yet. Not like Yugi has with Atem’s passing.

(Ryou is thankful that he’s at least taking things better than Kaiba, who apparently blew millions on a techno-archaeological mission to recover the Millennium Puzzle and resurrect Atem. What billionaires do with their money.)

Yugi is always moving forward, and maybe it’s because he has friends who knew him and Atem, friends who loved them both. When it comes to Ryou, the group never really knew what to make of him, and he doesn’t blame them. The Spirit was cunning and manipulative. Sometimes, even Ryou couldn’t tell the difference between the two of them, so intertwined were their souls and minds. Every time he tried to draw the line, he felt like a liar because it's not as if anyone knew the both of them as separate entities. No one but Malik.

Maybe Ryou is spending time with Malik for closure as well.

-

They wander down the northern section of the Khan el-Khalili street, where metal workshops flank both sides of the narrowest alleyways.

Displays of rings, bracelets, earrings, and curios glitter beautifully in rows under the afternoon sun. Ryou half expects to see a Millennium Item pop up. That would be wild, and frankly, Ryou doesn’t know if he could handle it. He can’t even handle making eye contact with shopkeepers, and he sticks close to Malik, throwing him little deferential gestures whenever he feels their gazes land on them. Malik always grins and moves onto the next thing that catches his eyes. The man likes shiny stuff.

“See anything you want?” asks Malik.

“Only if you haggle for me,” says Ryou.

“Haggle?” Malik says in surprise. Then, in his earnest Namu voice, “Wouldn't you pay full price for authentic Egyptian metalwork?”

Ryou returns the innocent look. “Didn’t you run an entire criminal organization based on thievery?”

Malik presses a palm to his heart, looking comically wounded. “Duel Monster cards are mass produced! You can’t compare cheap capitalist products to artisan crafts.”

“Oh, right,” Ryou says thoughtfully. “Except God Cards, I guess.”

“Those were mine to begin with,” Malik scoffs. Then, as if realizing what he said, he presses his knuckles to his lips and looks back to Ryou, very slowly. “You know what I meant. I _thought_ they were mine back when I was angry with the Pharaoh—”

“Too late, too late!” Ryou crows, “I’m gonna tell on you to Yugi! And maybe your sister!”

“Whoa, whoa.” Malik looks genuinely alarmed now, glancing around. “Don’t even joke about my sister. She can track me down from across the globe.”

“She might even be here watching us right now,” Ryou whispers behind a hand.

Malik stands up straight and assumes what could only be a fantastic impression of Isis, “Malik, as the fates have ordained, we meet today in front of the finest quality lamps in Cairo. Behold, the silver ones are half off.”

Ryou covers his face, laughing, and Malik buys a lamp.

-

“The Winged Dragon of Ra in Phoenix Form!” Malik declares as he plugs his impulse purchase into the wall. He looks around to survey his living room. “Yeah, okay, this doesn’t match anything here.”

Ryou pulls his toothbrush from his mouth and reassures him, “The good thing is, nothing else does either.”

Malik raises his brows with a sharp click of his tongue. “I banish you to the bathroom!”

Ryou pretends to be dragged down the hall by the shadows. Thank god they both have a dark sense of humor.

When he finishes his evening routine, Ryou finds Malik leaning against the doorframe of an empty bedroom, absentmindedly flicking the light switch on and off. He doesn’t notice Ryou’s presence until he’s standing right next to him. His listless expression quickly transforms into a smile, “Bakura. Hey…”

“You know, you don’t have to be funny and entertaining all the time,” Ryou says gently. “I figure you’re trying to get away from the person you were at Battle City, but if it takes some time… Well then, it just takes some time.”

“First, I’m funny and entertaining because I’m Egyptian, and light blood flows through my veins,” Malik explains graciously. “Second, that version of me…”

Ryou’s heart feels a pang as sincere worry and unease slowly fills Malik’s eyes.

“I made him disappear by my own hand, and I’ll be atoning for what _we_ did for the rest of my life, but…”

Ryou watches him space out and frowns. “Malik?”

Malik turns to him, still troubled. “He’s gone now, and I’m me. _I’m me,_ but even though it’s been two years, I don’t know who I am outside of revenge and guilt.”

“Ah.” Ryou nods. He has never been fueled by the burning passion of vengeance, but he's felt its fire. It’s an obsessive, consuming blaze, and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Not Malik, nor the Spirit, but unfortunately, it claimed both their lives: the Spirit’s 3,000 years and Malik’s eighteen. At least Malik made it out in one piece.

“He’s gone,” Malik whispers to himself, turning the light back on.

 _Almost_ one piece.

Maybe that’s why he fills his apartment with anything he takes a shine to. Anything to fill in what he's lost, to reassure him of who he is now.

Ryou doesn’t know what to say.

“You can stay in Rishid’s room. Everything’s ready to use. He always does the laundry before he leaves on a trip.” Malik gives Ryou a tired smile. Then, wistfully, he adds, “I hope he comes back soon. I’m almost out of clean clothes.”

Ryou glances at him, waiting for the laugh after the punchline. But Malik heaves a sigh and disappears behind the door next to Rishid’s.

Ryou peers into Rishid’s tastefully minimalist room. He closes the door behind him and rests his bag against it. He takes stock of his surroundings. A couple of floor lamps stand in the corners. There's a full bookshelf nearby. He sees a neatly made bed against the wall he shares with Malik, and suddenly, he feels weary. He feels the weight of not only that day but the years since Battle City on his shoulders.

The absence of the Spirit, who was with him for half his life, weighs the most.

“He’s gone,” Ryou whispers to the empty room, and he turns the lights off.

\---

Malik’s devious smile is his best smile.

His gold earrings gleam, and he looks infinitely more precious in the moonlight: something worth plundering.

“I’m not going to run, Bakura,” he says wryly, but grimaces as Bakura shifts his grip from the bands around his neck to the soft flesh beneath his chin.

Bakura is not his name, but he doesn’t have one of his own these days. It was lost long ago to a history never recorded, so why _not_ Bakura? It’s just another thing he’s borrowing from his host, on top of his deck, his home, his vessel, his _inclinations_.

Well, the last one, who can say? He’s been curious, and his host has been kind enough to do all the research while gaining none of the experience.

“Good, I don’t fuck brats who go back on their word.”

“You sound nervous,” says Malik, and Bakura grabs him by the jaw, covering his mouth, pushing him hard into the mattress. Malik grunts. He grabs Bakura’s wrists, and he’s _strong_. Bakura suspects he could fling Ryou’s weak arms off without much effort, but Malik’s gaze tells him he won’t.

Bakura presses his thigh between those bare bronze legs, and he _knows_ Malik won’t. The boy’s black-lined eyes are dark, more pupil than iris, and they narrow _just_ so that Bakura can tell he’s pleased by their arrangement.

_Consider rent paid tonight, landlord._

\---

Ryou wakes up, hard and confused. He looks to the wall between his and Malik's rooms and says, "My god, they were fucking."


	2. CAIRO 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ryou is honest and Malik, only partially.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick reminder that in the manga, the Battle Ship blimp still worked after Battle City finals, and they took it back to Domino.

| CAIRO 2 |

 

“Bakura, are you in there?”

Malik snaps his fingers in Ryou’s face. Ryou doesn’t notice. His brain is fuzzy.

When he was little, he drew the same picture of a ghost on two sheets of paper and held them up against the light. The pencil lines overlapped. They were fuzzy against each other.

He thought about those ghosts whenever he woke to the fuzzy mind haze left by Spirit of the Ring: his plans, ambitions, _desires_. Ryou’s thoughts would still be in _his_ voice, and Ryou would think, _oh, we’ve overlapped._ There were some days, especially early on, when he couldn’t re-center himself. Today feels like one of those mornings.

And so, when Malik snaps in his face again, Ryou looks up at him, peeved, lips drawn into a snarl that wasn’t quite him but was nearly _him_. Malik’s look of concern melts into something even softer. “Bakura?”

 _Bakura, yes, no, it’s Bakura_. Ryou closes his eyes and wrestles his mind into focus. It’s his own responsibility now, no excuses. He says, very gently, “No. Still me, the landlord.”

“That’s… that’s _good,_ ” says Malik. There’s relief in his voice. A little bit of disappointment, but mostly relief. “Don’t space out like that. I was telling you about the very important inconvenience that is my broken dishwasher.”

Ryou huffs a small laugh and stirs his scrambled eggs. “Sorry...” He’s still in shock because he hasn’t felt that kind of mind fuzz since the Spirit’s heyday. “I had a weird dream last night.”

“How weird?” Malik leans forward over the countertop, intrigued. He smells like sandalwood and vanilla. “Tell me about it.”

Hot skin and wicked kisses; right before quarterfinals, when the Spirit hadn’t cared whether or not Malik survived the night, and he was just hungry for _something_ before it was gone. But after the tournament, Malik had found Ryou’s room, brows knitted, voice cracking— _“Figured you’d want to finish what you started yesterday.”_ The Spirit had scoffed, surprised, still stung over the loss of the Rod and briefly the Ring to Yugi, but this time Malik wanted something, and he had been _persuasive_. Ryou had to admit it was impressive, a feat unattainable to anyone with even an ounce less charisma than Malik.

Ryou had woken up sore afterward, with dopamine flooding his brain and a suspicion that would prove to be true in the end. He thought the Spirit had actually won the tournament at first. To be fair, Ryou supposes he did win _something_. But it’s hard to be mad at them, now that the Spirit’s memories give him a rather unfounded sense of entitlement to Malik’s body. It’s technically not Ryou’s fault, but he does feel guilty over it, along with the other things he _did_ do to Malik by proxy…

“Tough to describe it,” Ryou says honestly and tries not to look down Malik’s night shirt.

Malik cocks an eyebrow, as if he were expecting another answer. He takes a sip from his coffee, watching Ryou. “Try me.”

His eyes are as penetrating as always, and Ryou can’t look away. The intensity just makes him shift in his seat, uncomfortably warm. “I think they were the Spirit’s memories.”

“What do you mean?”

If there’s one thing Ryou can’t make sense of, it’s _why_ these memories surfaced. The Spirit was so tight-lipped that Ryou hadn’t even known about the lost village of Kul Elna until he was working on the RPG board. That probably hurt the most. It broke the last of his resolve the hate the Spirit, this poor man trapped in gold forged from the flesh of his own family.

And now, these intimate moments are budding inside Ryou’s mind from wherever the Spirit buried them. He hopes it’s going according to plan, if there was a plan to begin with. If the Spirit intended for Ryou to see them eventually, then Ryou wishes he hadn’t waited so long to reveal his hand. The Spirit always played the long game. It’d be a shame if this was one he couldn’t finish after all. And whatever this means for Malik, well, it means it's simply another loose end for Ryou to tie up.

“He’s… gone,” he says because it’s the right thing to do. There’s nothing he can embellish it with to soften the blow, but he can’t dangle the Spirit’s existence in front of Malik anymore, not when they were as close as they were. It’s unfair, and it’s sad. It’s too sad. “I’m all that’s left in here.”

Malik brings his mug of coffee to his lips and looks away. The wall clock ticks in the silence. The tension drips by like droplets of water. It takes a minute, but he says, “Then, don’t worry about it.”

Ryou just wants to do right by him.

-

Malik seems to take it in stride—his mood doesn’t change, at least.

Ryou follows him downstairs to return the bowl to the landlady. A large, bearded man in an impressive three-piece suit answers the bell. The first thing he does is look at Malik’s jewelry disapprovingly. They talk. He accepts the bowl and closes the door.

“Nice guy,” Malik says in the elevator, “except he hates the way I dress. He scolds me every time I see him. I’m surprised he lets his mother visit me by herself as often as she does...” They pass two floors in thoughtful silence. Then, Malik says in mild shock, “Oh. It’s probably because he wants to marry my sister.” He seems somewhat amused by his revelation, as if the feelings of his neighbors were a whimsical novelty to him. “That explains her apartment…”

Ryou glances at Malik’s bare arms and shoulders, each adorned with gold bands. “Well, I don’t think I’ve seen _anyone_ here dressed like you yet,” he says in an honest attempt to redirect the conversation back to something not-romantic. He tries not to look at Malik for too long. Or too short. He doesn’t want to be _that_ obvious. “You’re, uh, eye-catching.”

But if he were to make a blunder, that was definitely an obvious one.

Malik grins. “You know, modesty is a virtue for men and women alike,” he says sagely as if it’s his own wisdom to dispense. He puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “But you can’t be more modest than my family has, dedicating our entire existence to serving an ancient king. They say it’s an honor, but I’ve seen servitude from both sides, and...” He wrinkles his nose. “Setting aside all the crap I did, all I got out of it was this huge message to a dead man carved on my back.”

Ryou smiles uneasily. He can’t for the life of him remember what Malik’s back looks like, but he knows he shouldn’t ask. Malik seems preoccupied with his own thoughts.

“Although I did get my ass handed back to me by the Pharaoh in the end, safe and sound,” Malik continues as they step outside. “See, I learned my lesson in humility. I’m very humble now, nothing left to prove.”

As if on cue, the conversation stops in front of Malik’s cherry-red, mid-life-crisis cruiser.

“It’s useful,” Malik protests, and Ryou smiles his “I’m not judging” smile.

When Malik straddles his motorcycle and beckons Ryou to join him, Ryou doesn’t hesitate this time. He tries to think very hard about the scenery as Malik drives them to the museum, but it’s difficult with his arms wrapped around Malik’s waist.

-

Ryou manages to get two pictures of Cairo’s Museum of Egyptian Antiquities before Malik disappears into the huge red building. Ryou hurries in after him, hoping for at least one decent polaroid. Having Malik as a tour guide means never stopping long enough for pictures, to Ryou’s extreme dismay.

“Oh, Malik,” Isis says in surprise. “I haven’t seen you wear that outfit since Battle City.”

“I was feeling nostalgic, Sister,” he says cheerfully as they exchange pecks on the cheeks. “You look well. I’m glad you haven’t worked yourself to death since I last saw you.”

“Three days,” she corrects him affectionately in her gentle monotone. “Don’t make it sound like I’m neglecting you.”

“I see your name in the latest edition of the museum’s guide to the ancient pharaohs,” Malik says, holding up a thick, glossy tome that he procured from the giftshop. He makes a show of flipping through it. “I like the inaccuracies.”

Isis raises her brows and clucks her tongue. “You know how academia is, Malik. They ignored all my notes. Those dodgy old men would have my name scratched out like our Pharaoh’s, if they had their way.”

“Speaking of, did you happen to meet with a Professor Bakura today?”

Isis’ gaze follows Malik’s to Ryou, and there’s vague recognition in her eyes. “The owner of the Domino Museum. A pleasant colleague.”

“Ishtars work well with Bakuras,” Malik agrees. “Is he still around?”

“I believe he already left for an excavation site,” she says, her eyes on Ryou. "And… you are related to him…?”

“Ah. Yes,” says Ryou. It was his own fault for not seeing his father sooner. The man was never the kind to wait for family when there was something new to discover in Egypt, but he can’t help but feel disappointed. Malik notices, and something about his expression seems to wax sympathy when Ryou says, “Yes… I’m Ryou Bakura.”

“His son,” Malik supplies helpfully. He fidgets with his earring. “He dueled the Pharoah at the Battle City quarterfinals.”

Well, one of him did.

“Ah, of course,” she says, all placid smiles. “I remember it well.”

“I won second place,” Malik reminds everyone needlessly.

“Didn’t you lose every duel you were in?” says Ryou, even more needlessly.

“Yes, now that you mention it,” Isis continues the trend, “Rishid won his locator cards for him as well.”

She and Ryou walk down the hall together, chatting politely and leaving Malik behind in the Antiquities section. Malik steps on the back of Ryou’s trainers for the duration of their visit, but Ryou somehow already knew he was petty.

Ryou spends the next three hours poring over each mummification artifact he sees and making Malik translate hieroglyphics around them. In other words, until Malik is bored to tears. Judging by Isis’ indirect comments, Ryou suspects that her little brother would have thrown an actual tantrum if they stayed any longer. As much as he would have liked to see that, he didn’t want her to lose face. She’s been nothing but nice to him.

She also treats them out to lunch.

When the Ishtar siblings talk, Ryou can’t help but imagine a thread being pulled back and forth over their bowls of om ali. Malik and Isis switch between at least three different languages, and Ryou loses track whenever they speak in Masry or their Tombkeeper’s dialect. He eats diligently, joining the conversation where he can, and he ends up eating Malik’s dessert, too.

Somewhere in the conversation when Ryou wasn’t paying attention, the imaginary thread snaps, and Malik is at a loss for words. He looks down pensively into his cup of coffee. Isis places her hand upon the back of his, and he doesn’t move away or reject her. He just sighs and nods. “You couldn’t hide it forever,” she says.

Afterward, when the bill is paid and Isis left in her black BMW, Malik declares, “We’re going to find your father. Isis says he’s at the pyramid over around Giza.”

Unusual for an impromptu quest, but Ryou likes the spontaneity. There is, however, a problem.

“But there’s three pyramids,” says Ryou. He adjusts the shoulder straps of his bookbag. Malik’s new giftshop acquisition is hefty. “And I saw them last time.”

“You didn’t see them with me,” says Malik. “Anyway, we’ll figure it out when we get there.”

-

The first thing they figure out when they reach Giza is that Malik’s jewelry attracts merchants. He nearly bowls over a gaggle of them hawking their wares by the entrance. They stick to the motorcycle like glue, showing Ryou lapis lazulis, water bottles, and trinkets. Malik indulges them, to Ryou’s surprise, as long as they don’t touch his ride. The two of them putter off with two water bottles and a pocket full of polished blue pebbles stamped with the Eye of Horus. Malik has a clear vase he wants to fill with cool rocks from around the world, and he figures he might as well help the local economy while he’s at it.

But Ryou notices Malik growing more and more uncomfortable as they drive into Giza proper. "It's just... strange seeing so many people—foreigners—at a tomb," says Malik, "having a good time."

Parking is harder to find after Duel Monsters’ ancient connection to Egypt was made public worldwide. Tourism is at an all-time high these days, and Malik ends up paying this chatty man a small roll of bills for a secret parking space. He sheds his gold bands and rings and shoves them unceremoniously into Ryou’s bag. “There. Now, maybe we’ll attract less attention.”

“You look kind of naked without them,” Ryou comments, a little disturbed. He’s just full of saucy remarks today.

Malik does a doubletake, plainly not expecting that. “Well, y-you’re really sunburned,” he says, and Ryou wonders what kind of comebacks he used to dish out with the Spirit.

“Yep, skin cancer runs in the family,” Ryou replies with a chuckle as he digs out a baseball cap from his backpack, and now it’s Malik’s turn to look disturbed.

-

“Sorry, I didn’t know it’d be like this. I might live in Cairo now, but this is the first time I’ve ever been here,” Malik mutters as they flee from yet another small group of souvenir peddlers. “Just stay with me. They look like they’re skipping tourist with local guides, so—where are you going?!”

Ryou stands five feet away, holding up a six-pack of ZamZam. “Look, they have the mango flavor here, too!”

Malik eyes the seller, who looks away quickly, and turns to Ryou. “Rishid says they’ll make you pay three times the price, if you—"

“Malik, I want to ride that camel,” Ryou says, immediately drawn to a painted beast decorated in a bedazzled harness. On its back is a blanket that rivals Malik’s living room in color.

“What about your father?” Malik heaves the ZamZam onto his shoulder, looking terribly inconvenienced.

"We can find him while riding a camel," says Ryou. “Aren’t you the one who said we should have some fun?”

"Do you think cemeteries are fun?"

“Yes! Anyway, come on, how else are we going to get around Giza?” Ryou is halfway up the camel, and he looks at Malik like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Walk? In this heat? Without anything to drink? My bag is heavy. Also, look how cute this big guy is!”

“His name is Rashid, and he likes sweetened dates,” says the camel’s handler, and that gets Malik’s attention. Ultimately, Ryou finds it doesn’t take much to convince Malik to embrace the _tourist_ side of the experience. Ryou supposes there's something about compartmentalizing it all that makes it more palatable.

-

They ride the camel to all the new excavation sites, but they keep missing Ryou’s father.

“It’s like a game of chase,” Ryou chirps, but Malik seems more distressed with each slip. When they reach the final site to learn that Professor Bakura already left for the day, Malik takes it much harder than Ryou:

“Well, _shit_.”

“It’s fine, Malik.” Ryou feeds Rashid some dates from his owner. That’s an extra twenty Egyptian pounds, on top of the hundred Malik already blew on other snacks for the camel. Ryou is beginning to suspect that Malik missed his older brother even more than he was letting on. “We had a good time. Let’s get some pictures.”

They dawdle around the Great Sphinx so that Ryou can use up the rest of his film. Malik poses half-heartedly, which means every shot is a perfect candid, and then it’s sunset. Malik actually wanted to leave before sunset, but Ryou suspects Malik indulged him a bit longer out of guilt.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to see him,” he tells Ryou as they walk back to the motorcycle, and he really means it.

“C’mon, don’t worry about it," says Ryou. "It’s just my dad.”

Malik turns to him, agitated. “You don’t want to see your father?”

Ryou blinks, taken aback by the harshness in his voice. “Well, sure I do… But things happen. We’ll see each other eventually.”

Malik nods but says nothing. Ryou follows him down some steps. He can see that Malik’s back and shoulders are stiff, but he’s not sure what to say to help.

“Yeah, that’s… That’s a good attitude. Seems like you two really understand each other,” Malik finally says, his voice gruff. He rubs the back of his neck with both hands and breathes in deeply. “Okay. Let’s head back.”

Ryou doesn’t know anything about Malik’s family outside of his siblings, and no one tells him anything. Not the Spirit, not Malik, who is clearly projecting _something_ onto him. But Ryou isn’t be mad. He’s too curious. It’s not always easy to uncover a character’s backstory, especially not for a person like Malik, but if it’s something he can help with, then it’s a quest worth taking.

He looks over to the road, he sees tourist buses trundling back to Cairo with their headlights on. The path looks congested, bright red lights everywhere a kilometer outside of the city. “Let’s wait for the traffic to ease up. It’s peaceful here. We can talk.”

That was definitely the wrong choice—the wrong thing to say. Malik looks at him as if he’s lost his mind. “No,” he says firmly. _“No._ We’re going back now.”

“Why, because the sun’s setting?” Ryou takes off his cap and ruffles his hair in the warm desert breeze. “Are you afraid of the dark?”

Malik’s jaw tightens. “I don’t want to be around any ancient tomb at night.”

“Between you and me, we could take anyone that tries to rob us,” Ryou assures him, and Malik scowls.

“I’m not afraid of _that_. I’m afraid of… It just reminds me… You don’t know, do you?” He looks angry, embarrassed, scared, frustrated—so many expressions flitting across his face, and they all freeze into mortification. “It’s _me_. It’s my _family_. I have to get away from the past, and it’s dark—Even if it’s just florescent lights, I could be…”

For a second, Ryou swears Malik’s eyes glaze over into something dark and hazy.

“Malik, can you relax?” Ryou places his hands gently on Malik’s arms, and Malik flinches. His eyes dart to the horizon where the sun is beginning to land, and then to Ryou. He looks like he’s going to vanish. His voice is weak, oxygen-starved:

“I can’t.”

“Then, how are you going to drive us home?” Ryou asks him. It’s a reasonable question; at least, it makes Malik think. If Malik uses modernity as a crutch, then Ryou will draw him back with it. “You’ll need to pay attention to the road. Traffic is going to be bad with all the people driving back from work.”

“And it’s… Thursday,” says Malik, his shoulders lowering, his eyes focusing. He takes a deep breath and then, another. “Everyone is going out for the… the weekend.”

“Sounds like a good time,” says Ryou, turning him toward Cairo. “You said so yourself, there’s a lot to do here.”

“Yeah… It’s a big city.”

“You know what _we_ should do?” says Ryou. “We should watch a movie. I’ve always wanted to see a movie in another country. I wouldn’t mind seeing The Matrix again, this time in Arabic. Or maybe the new Star Wars, if it’s out…”

Malik takes another unsteady breath, his eyes fixed on the lights in the distance. Ryou helps him stagger to the stone steps they walked down, and they take a seat. Malik buries his face in his hands, shaking. “We… we could go see a movie,” he says hoarsely. “Sounds good.”

“What else should we do?”

“…Amusement park,” mumbles Malik. “I liked the roller coasters in Kaibaland.”

That elicits a surprised laugh from Ryou. “You’ve been to _Kaibaland_?”

Malik peers at him through his fingers. “ _We_ went.”

“How— _When?_   You know what, it doesn’t matter! I see how it is.” Ryou pouts and elbows him gently. “It’s so mean of you two not to invite me when he was running around in _my_ body!”

“We… We’ll go next time, just us.” Malik manages a laugh, and things feel almost right again. Ryou lets the seconds ooze by as Malik slowly flexes his clammy fingers while gazing at the lights in the distance.

Ryou rummages around his bag until he finds two cans of ZamZam. He nudges Malik with one, and Malik takes it. "Sorry I made you stay so long when you didn't want to."

"It was my idea in the first place," Malik says. "It's just so different here than the tombs my family oversaw. I feel like a relic compared to..." He gestures to the remaining vendors packing up their wares. "Them."

The cans pop and fizz when opened, and Malik groans at the mess. He flicks some soda off his hand and looks pointedly to Ryou as if it’s his fault. Ryou smiles back sweetly and flicks warm soda at him.

The sun is halfway behind the orange horizon, and the clear sky is a bright red above them.

“The Millennium Ring is gone,” Ryou says quietly. It’s out of the blue, but it also feels like the right time to bring it up. Malik takes a swig and looks down at his drink. He nods, solemn but with a satisfaction as if he had been expecting those words for a while now. Ryou wonders how many other conversations Malik has prepared to have with him.

“That’s too bad,” says Malik, resting his chin on the heel of his hand. “At least I got to wear it once. It’s part of my heritage. According to the scriptures, the original holder of the Ring was the priest Mahaad. He was one of the first Tombkeepers.” Malik taps the black line along his lower eyelid. “Maybe even the very first of my clan, before Shadi’s line split off.”

 _Oh no_ , thinks Ryou, and Malik catches his expression.

“What? Is there something else you’re not telling me?”

“There’s a few things…” Ryou hesitates, but he feels that if he’s not honest with Malik, Malik will never know what the Spirit did. It might be better to spare him, but if he lets Malik dwell on his clan by himself on the dark foot of the pyramids, then he might fall into another panic attack…

“Tell me what the Spirit did,” Malik commands as if he still had the Rod.

Ryou grimaces. It’s like ripping off a band-aid: “The Spirit killed the priest Mahaad when he was still the Thief King.”

“He was the…? _Damn_ , that’s unexpected, but it makes sense now.” Malik stares at him in wonder, but then his eyes narrow like he’s scanning a textbook, and Ryou averts his gaze. “Wait. There’s something else. _Tell me.”_

Ryou stares down at his drink, feeling trapped, but at the same time—he can’t just _not_ tell Malik. “And the Spirit also… when he possessed me for the first time, he killed Shadi.” His anxious fingers put a dent in the can. He hates that he’s the one carrying the Spirit’s guilt in the end, but there’s no one else to bear it. He wants to apologize to Malik, to say that even _he_ didn’t know about it until this year, and neither of them knew they would meet the Tombkeeper clan back when Ryou first held the Ring. But it’s hard to apologize for the Spirit when he was never sorry for what he did on his quest for Millennium Items.

Malik is quiet. Ryou doesn’t dare look at him. It’s only when Ryou hears giggles that he finally turns to Malik, who is hunched over his knees with his forehead in his hand.

“Of course _,_ he did. Of course, that’s who he was.” Malik sits up and runs his hands through his hair, eyes dewy and cheeks flushed. “And of _course_ , I'd get involved with not only the Pharaoh’s greatest nemesis but my family’s, too. The signs were right there and he just—he wasn't even... Gods, I'm a fool. I really _do_ deserve to be disowned.”

“I don’t know about that.” Ryou tries to think of something more lighthearted because Malik looks like he needs it, but he’s drawing a blank. He pats Malik’s shoulder gingerly. “I think things turned out… okay for everyone, considering all that happened.”

Malik turns to him, his eyes imploring. “You really think so?”

“I just think it could’ve ended a _lot_ worse for the both of us.” Ryou shrugs sheepishly, and Malik seems to find solace in that. Or at least humor. He grins, too tired to laugh anymore.

They gaze at each other, marveling at the weight of this tangential, coincidental history that links them together. Malik doesn’t seem to notice when the sun disappears. He says, “I guess I still need to let go of the bad parts. And make amends.”

Ryou nods. He opens a new can and tips it over to spill some mango soda. Malik looks at him with a quizzical frown, and Ryou explains, “Pouring out a drink for the dead. Least I can do, right?”

“Huh.” Malik likes the idea. He pours one out, too. “One for my ancestors.”

Ryou spills a bit more. “One for the Spirit of the Ring.”

“And one…” Malik stares at his can and empties it. “One for the Pharaoh.”

\---

When Bakura opens the door, Malik is standing on the other side.

He closes it on Malik’s steel-toed boot—slams it twice more for good measure—but his former partner manages to worm his way inside with an oversized trunk. He throws Bakura a bewildered glower as he strolls in, giving Ryou’s small apartment an obvious (and unimpressed) once-over before disappearing into the bathroom. Bakura hears the lock click and the shower faucet creak.

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but Bakura clicks his tongue in annoyance and slams the front door shut. He hadn’t counted on seeing Malik ever again, especially now that the Ishtar was reformed onto the Pharaoh’s side.

 _Allegedly_.

For some reason, he’s here instead of in Egypt. Maybe his family hadn’t wanted him back after all.

Ryou lost the key to the bathroom ages ago, but Bakura makes do with a paperclip. It takes five minutes to unlock the door, two seconds to cross the room, and half a second to shove aside the curtain. He gets a glimpse of Malik’s carved back before the boy flattens it against the tiles. He steps into the tub, under the steady rain of hot water, where Malik waits for him, all sharp eyes and chary smiles.

“You missed me,” Malik confirms, and Bakura smirks, drawing the curtain closed behind him.

\---

Ryou wakes up the next day and takes a long, cold shower. He gets out when Malik starts banging on the door. It isn’t until he’s blow-drying his hair that he begins to wonder what Malik was doing in Domino again after Battle City. There wasn’t much conversation in that last memory, which almost ended in a concussion when Malik slipped and took the Spirit down with him. “What else is new,” the Spirit had said.

Ryou finds Malik at the coffee table with one of those magnifying table mirrors and a modest set of black powder makeup. He plops down across the table from Malik and watches him apply the black to his eyes with a small, wooden rod.

“You made me wash my face at the kitchen sink like some barbarian,” Malik says lightly. “Know that you’ll be punished.”

“Whoa. Your eyelashes are blond, too,” Ryou whispers, going in for a closer look, until he’s directly above the mirror and Malik has to push him back out of his personal bubble.

“Sorry.” Ryou sits back on his heels, properly admonished. He watches Malik work and notices a sort of slow, thoughtful care in his movements. This isn’t just a daily routine. “This is a tradition, isn’t it?”

“The heir of the Tombkeeper clan must always wear these kohl markings,” Malik explains as he fills in the shapes along the corners of his eyes. “At least on my family’s side. We are the ones that kept the initiation ritual as well. Shadi’s line didn’t.”

Ryou thinks about how different Malik’s path would have been, had he been born into Shadi’s line instead of the Ishtars, but he realizes he doesn’t need to imagine it. It already happened and had culminated into the vendetta Aigami—no, _Diva_ —carried for half his life. Maybe revenge was inevitable in this clan, thanks to the Spirit of the Ring.

It’s fitting for the Thief King to be the bane of the Tombkeepers’ existence. But it’s also tragic that Malik had crossed his path at the wrong time. At Malik’s cruelest. At his most desperate. At _all._

But despite that, Ryou is still glad they met.

“I’ve managed to get both factions to disown me, Bakura.” Malik draws the iconic hooks along his cheekbone with two clean sweeps. “And now, they’re on the brink of splitting into a third faction.”

Ryou dares to be optimistic, “One that accepts you?”

Malik inspects his reflection. “They accept me because they don’t believe Atem was the true Pharaoh. My actions were wrong, but I didn’t go against the real king they’ve been waiting for, and I learned my lesson. They want to stay underground for another 3,000 years. That’s the Tombkeeper clan that will have me.”

“Ah.” Malik’s predicament is dark. Ryou feels a shudder go down his spine and glances away to see Malik’s gold earrings at the base of the mirror, glittering in the morning sun. Malik follows his gaze.

“I refuse to go below the surface again,” he says and picks up the jewelry. He weighs them in his hand, pensively, and then he puts them on. “I’ve sacrificed too much and done worse to go back meekly. But maybe it’s because of my transgressions that I must…” He frowns. “It’s my duty to bring my family into the light. _All_ of my family.”

It’s clear that he has wanted to say this for a long time, not necessarily to Ryou but definitely to himself. He might have spent his adolescence flouting tradition, subverting it to justify his own desires, but it says something—the fact that he still drew the same reverential lines around his eyes every day in spite of his ambitions. Malik is full of rationalized contradictions, but Ryou supposes he is as well, and he nods because that’s all he can do. He doesn’t have enough close friends to know what to say in this kind of situation. He’s woefully underqualified to unpack Malik’s burdens. But he knows someone who’s at the right level for Malik.

“What does your sister think?”

“She… defended me,” Malik says to the mirror, his reflection peering back at him regally. “If anyone can convince all three groups to join together and forgive me, it’s her—and she _did_.”

“Oh.” Ryou blinks. “Then… everything’s cool?”

“Supposedly. We can finally shed our dark past and walk toward a brighter future.” Malik moves the mirror aside so he can set his elbows on the table. He rests his chin in his hands and shoots Ryou a wry grin. “But they have a condition: I must cease my dishonorable operations.”

“Operations?” Ryou says quizzically, and then it clicks. He can’t help but laugh because despite his good-boy act, Malik is still undeniably crafty. “Are you _still_ running the Ghouls?”

“Bakura.” Malik’s devious smile is his best smile. “Have you ever been to Dubai?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter count might go up! I misjudged how much time they'd spend in Cairo.


	3. DUBAI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ryou and Malik run into some real characters in Dubai.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've expanded the chapter count.

Malik is making scrambled eggs. He does a fine job ignoring of Bakura until Bakura slips a hand up the back of his shirt.

“ _Stop_.”

Bakura grins, satisfied. He brushes his thumb along the carved glyphs on Malik’s spine. “I know what these mean. And it’s in my best interests for the Pharaoh to regain his memories, so get this: I’ll  _help_  Yugi gather the rest of the Items.”

“It’s not just about the Items. The Pharaoh must return to Egypt to pass onto the afterlife,” Malik says stiffly, elbowing him. Such a tiny token of resistance. Bakura takes Malik’s wrist and pins it against the small of his back. Malik heaves a frustrated sigh. What formality (or dignity) he was bearing drops instantly. “Seriously—I’m  _not_  doing this, Bakura. The eggs will burn.”

“How's it feel to be an honorary member of the Friendship Brigade?” Bakura grins into the back of Malik’s neck. He wants to bite hard enough to draw blood, to show Malik what a fool he is for treading into Bakura’s domain so lightly on the Pharaoh's behalf. But he also wants breakfast.

“I know you’re up to something with the Millennium Items,” says Malik. “And you’re free to pursue whatever it is as long as it doesn’t interfere with my plans.”

“ _Your_  plans?” Bakura reaches over Malik’s shoulder and grabs his chin, tilting it. Malik scowls prettily at him but does nothing more. Bakura expected less compliance. He had hoped for it. The glint in Malik eyes that intrigued him on the pier is gone—replaced by a weary sort of determination that's about as interesting as any other brat's in Yugi’s crew.

The Malik that Bakura knew had very little luck in his life. That man hedged his bets on a million contingency plans. It was something Bakura could appreciate: the almost artful abandon with which Malik would trash an old deck for a new. Such a versatile bastard. Even when all his plans were laid to waste, he would insist on being in charge. Malik was clever and ruthless at his best, which made him fun on the same team.

But he’s boring now. Placid, obedient Malik is boring, annoying, and worst of all, useless. Bakura wants to sink Ryou’s silverware into him, if only to make those striking eyes vengeful again. He releases Malik roughly. “We might have a history, but I’ll be damned if I follow another one of your plans.”

“Let’s make a deal, Bakura.”

“That goes double for your deals.”

“Kill the Pharaoh,” says Malik, “but do it by defeating him in the Ceremonial Duel.”

Bakura raises a brow. “That’s not going to work with my schedule.”

“I’m very good with schedules,” Malik replies, tossing a smirk over his shoulder. And there he is. A glimpse of his old self. Malik wasn’t a good person before his dark side took over in Battle City, and he still isn’t, despite the show he’s putting on. Bakura can sense it. Malik always came running to him when he needed something. Bakura would bet the Ring that he's as self-serving as ever.

And his offer? Not worth Bakura’s time. The situation just happens to be that Ryou will take months on his model of Egypt, and Bakura could use a diversion every once in a while...

“I’ll think on it,” he says, lifting the pan with eggs scrambled just how he likes them. Malik is a little brainworm. “Now, get out. Wouldn’t want the landlord to see you rooming for free.”

“Decide quickly.”

“Yes, Master Malik.”

Malik shoots him a haughty look from the front door. It sends a fun tingle down Bakura’s spine. “I hate loose ends, Bakura.”

So demanding. Figures that the most obnoxious part of Malik’s personality is the most enduring.

\---

Ryou wakes to his ears popping.

Malik sits next to him, idly tapping his CD player while his headphones blast music in his ears. Ryou can hear it. He grins because he likes that death metal band, too.

He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a small leather-bound journal he’s had since middle school. He tries to scribble down ideas for NPCs when inspiration strikes, and he just got a ton of new Malik notes from that last dream. When life gives you lemons, write a great RPG.

Malik notices. He watches Ryou set his pen to paper and says, “Are you writing to your sister?”

Ryou stops before he even starts. He looks to Malik, puzzled. “How do you know about Amane?”

“The Spirit told me.”

“Oh,” says Ryou.

He pretends to let it go.

It was an innocent enough remark on Malik’s part, conversational and dripping with polite interest, but Ryou knows for a fact that the Spirit would’ve never told Malik something he deemed as insignificant as Ryou’s letters to his dead little sister.

So,  _how_  would Malik know. How  _much_  does he know?

Ryou feels like he’s walking across a shaky bridge, and the gaps in his memory are holes beneath his feet. All he has to guide him are these bizarre warnings from the Spirit, if they’re even warnings at all. But at the same time, this mystery is the kind of occult thrill that Ryou  _lives_  for. “What else did he tell you?”

“Ah? About you? Not much. We only met at Battle City for a day or so, right?”

So, that’s the story Malik is going by.

It’s frustrating. Ryou knows  _enough_  to know it’s  _not_  enough. How long did Malik stay with them? When did they go to Kaibaland? What happened in Domino those months before Ryou awoke in his father’s museum, sprawled over his RPG masterpiece, to pure silence in his mind? He doesn’t remember much of it, just as he doesn’t remember Battle City after meeting Malik.

He’s learned that Malik’s friendship isn’t the same as Yugi’s. Yugi isn’t complicated, even when he was sharing a body with Atem. He’s kind and generous, the kind of person you could always count on. Malik  _can_  be kind and generous. He can also be terrible, which in itself is exciting and worth pursuing—to Ryou, at least. Maybe this is why people think he’s weird.

Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. If Ryou wants more from Malik, he’s going to have to offer more as well.

“I’ve been having dreams. I think they’re the Spirit’s memories,” he says. “And they’re about you.”

_“Me?”_

Malik sits up and leans over the armrest between them. His eyes are hungry, concerned,  _vulnerable_ , and he looks as though he has a million and a half secrets to spill, but just as he opens his mouth, the plane shakes with a rumble.

They’ve landed.

 

 

| DUBAI |

 

 

Malik and Ryou pause on their way to baggage claim. They stare at the wall-sized Blue Eyes White Dragon roaring at them over gleaming roller coasters. In big, bold letters, the advertisement reads:

**KAIBALAND DUBAI: Now Open!!**

-

They decide to drop off their luggage at Rishid’s place.

It’s not Malik's penthouse in Cairo, but it's a nice little studio apartment. Illuminated in the afternoon sun, it reminds Ryou of Rishid’s room: cozy, neat, and modest. There are a few touches here and there that look foreign, although not out of place, as if they were given to Rishid by a thoughtful person.

“Seems like you’re adjusting well to the khaleeji life,” says Malik.

“I do enjoy the seafood here very much…” Rishid clears his throat, bashfully. “And the people as well.”

“Hey, what happened to your room at the Chicago Beach Hotel?”

“I’ve learned that it’s known as the Jumeirah now,” says Rishid, setting down cups filled to the brim with golden tea. “I could not justify wasting your money on a luxury hotel when I was the only one staying there.”

“It’s not a waste if it’s  _you_ ,” Malik protests, but Rishid declines with a humble wave.

“I’m afraid it’s not for me.”

Malik pouts. He actually folds his arms across his chest and purses his lips in a pout. Ryou turns to Rishid, like,  _are you seeing this,_ and Rishid gives him a look that says,  _yes all the time._  Malik has the decency to look self-conscious when he notices their exchange. He takes a seat and makes a show of deciding which cup he wants.

Ryou toes off his shoes and follows Malik to the couch. It’s a modern design, a little firm for sitting. Ryou doesn’t see a bed, so maybe it’s for sleeping. Malik sweeps his judgmental gaze across the apartment, and Ryou watches him arrive to the same conclusion as well. The youngest Ishtar heaves a sigh but lets Rishid be Rishid. He hands his older brother a box of chocolates, one that he and Isis deliberated over for nearly an hour (because they wanted it to be good, but not so good that Rishid would reject it). Fortunately, Rishid puts it away, beaming. While his back is turned, Malik does a little fist pump for victory.

“I wanted to watch the construction of that big hotel on the man-made island,” he tells Rishid. “They had these tall white ladders with hooks that they used to pull blocks up.”

“I believe they’re called tower cranes,” Rishid says as he adds sugar to Malik’s tea.

“Tower cranes!” Malik is delighted. “I guess they do look like tall birds.”

Ryou eyes the dish of cookies next to the tea while the Ishtar brothers discuss Malik’s plans in Dubai. Their conversation is much different than the one Malik had with Isis. He’s more formal with her. He would pause to choose his words before speaking them aloud. With Rishid, Malik talks as rapidly as his mouth can keep pace with his brain. He’s pushy, occasionally childlike. Sometimes, he speaks in fragments with an impatient “you know what I mean!” Rishid always knows. It’s fun seeing this side of Malik, but Ryou can also tell how the years in their relationship inform their dynamic. Malik leads. Rishid follows. And yet Rishid still wears the kohl markings of the Ishtar heir, a right that is distinctly Malik's. Ryou wonders about it.

Unbeknownst to Isis, Rishid wasn’t in Dubai purely to oversee the construction of a museum. He’s here on Malik’s behalf to keep an eye on key players in the city’s Duel Monsters scene.

“It’s perfectly legal,” Malik assures Ryou. “Since it isn’t easy to get the latest official cards in this region, we’re scoping the market before other suppliers swoop in.”

Rishid nods. “Howard has been in talks with KaibaCorp to place us as the sole supplier for the Kaibaland vendors, but… It seems negotiations went sour a few days ago.”

“Tch, even after giving up the Millennium Rod, I still have to do everything myself,” Malik scoffs, bringing out his cell phone. “Rishid, do you have my bike?”

“I do,” says Rishid, “but before you leave, you gentlemen will need to wear these.”

Malik laughs when Rishid pulls helmets from a drawer. Ryou is thankful that keen preparation runs in the family.

-

Traffic is nonexistent, and the most magnificent buildings they pass are either historical or under construction. Malik had mentioned in passing how much he likes the potential of this city. Ryou is beginning to understand it, if only a little. The air shimmers yellow in the desert heat. The sky is a crisp blue sheet above them. They arrive at Kaibaland Dubai in under ten minutes.

“I don’t know what kind of business Rishid had that he couldn’t come with us,” says Malik petulantly, “but he missed out on a great ride.”

Ryou stumbles after him, his legs jelly. As it turns out, Malik’s Dubai motorcycle is the exact same model and color as his bike in Egypt, although this one has its sidecar. Ryou is glad he sat behind Malik anyway. Who’d have guessed that Malik would drive more maniacally with fewer vehicles on the road? He must have been a menace in Domino.

They pass a Blue Eyes White Dragon statue. Malik turns to Ryou with an earnest sparkle in his eyes. 

“You know, Bakura, we’re not expected to arrive for another half hour.”

But as it turns out, half an hour isn’t nearly enough time to do a speed run of the biggest indoor theme park in the world, even in the back seat of a Blue Eyes White Dragon golf cart. Regardless of time constraints, Malik points out every ride he wants to try.

“Is that Death-T? I didn’t get to go on that one in Domino!”

“Yugi and the others said that was meh. Let’s check out the House of Fiends instead. I heard they drench you with green slime.”

Kaibaland’s carnival arena is a quaint recreation of American state fairs as depicted by Hollywood, complete with all the rigged games Ryou can imagine and crammed full of stuffed dragons and KC-affiliated mascots. The staffer driving the cart explains Seto Kaiba’s designs on the expected influx of American ex-pats over the next two decades, now that Kaibaland Cali has officially thrown its gauntlet at Disneyland. Trust Kaiba to be thorough.

“I hear even the junk food menu is halal,” says Malik.

Ryou catches him eyeing a stuffed plush of the Winged Dragon of Ra hanging from a booth and says, “You coming back for that?”

Malik’s eyelashes flutter in surprise. He turns away, quickly. “Already have one.”

They arrive in time for Malik’s meeting. Malik breezes in with the air of a celebrity on the red carpet and disappears into the CEO office. Ryou flips opens his journal to kill some time. He soon realizes that he lost his pen. As he debates asking for a new one, the adrenaline rush from being Malik’s passenger wears off at last, and he ends up dozing comfortably on the couch next to the assistant's desk. Isono is nice enough to type quieter.

\---

It’s not time to reveal that they have the Ring again.

Bakura wouldn’t put it past Yugi and his friends to be helpful and deliver poor Ryou Bakura from its evil clutches once more. It was a miracle Ryou decided to put it back on anyway. Bakura still doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Oh my god, Bakura—why do you have a  _knife?”_

And so, Bakura gasps and drops his pocket knife as Yugi and Honda crouch over the bleeding, crying man—such a loser. Bakura did worse to himself in Battle City. “Sorry,” he says, “it was self-defense! Look, I’ll stay here. You guys get Anzu or someone to call a medic!”

Yugi nods, but Honda requires more convincing before he agrees to leave. He takes the knife with him.

When they’re out of sight, Bakura shoves the man over and looms above him, letting the shadows spill from the Millennium Ring. “From one thief to another,” he says, smiling with all his teeth, “don’t try that shit again.”

The man mouths helplessly to parkgoers who don’t notice him sinking into the dark, eldritch ground. His eyes bulge as he shouts, but no sound comes out. Bakura watches him, grinning. Human terror is truly adorable. He sits back and releases the man just as Yugi returns with his friends. They watch the would-be robber tear off as fast as his legs can carry him.

“Ahh, sorry,” Bakura apologizes again in the way he’s witnessed Ryou turn down love confessions. “He was stronger than I thought.”

They pat his shoulders and ask him if he’s okay. Honda gets him a soda. Ryou has very sweet, supportive friends. Bakura will definitely take advantage of that in the future.

However, when the group splits up for roller coasters, Malik finds Bakura holding everyone’s bags at the carnival section. Because Ryou was considerate and offered. Bakura glares at Malik, daring him to mouth off, but the blond smirks and holds his tongue.

“I expect that proved my dedication to my task,” Bakura says as Malik rests his shoulder against the wall of a shooting booth. God, how he wants to wipe that insufferable grin off Malik’s face.

“I’m pretty sure that poor sucker you scared took Yugi’s wallet and not his deck,” Malik says lightly, “but you  _did_  proved yourself. Now, then…”

“Now then, fuck you,” Bakura growls, hurling the bags onto the floor. “What else do you want from me, Malik?”

“Win me one of those stuffed Ra dolls,” Malik says mischievously, nodding to the cluster of yellow dangling above their heads. “Then, I’ll leave you alone to your… My bad, your  _landlord’s_  friends.”

“Why do you want a goddamned doll—you’re such a fuckin’ child, I  _swear_ ,” Bakura gripes as he climbs onto the counter.

“Wait, what are you—”

Bakura unhooks the Ra from the wall and tosses it to Malik, who catches it on reflex, his mouth agape. When a staffer runs over to object, Bakura heels her in the face and leaps down. He sprints past Malik and cackles at the dumbfounded disapproval on his face. Serves him right.

They both get banned from Kaibaland.

\---

Ryou wakes to the slam of the door.

Isono looks up from his desk as a blond man exits the office and hastily resumes his typing when he receives a glare for his effort. Ryou blinks groggily, squinting as the blond man bumps into a chair and then focuses all his attention on chucking it at the office door. He curses mightily in English. Ryou catches a glimpse of his scruffy face and feels the blood drain from his cheeks.

_What is Bandit Keith doing here?_

The office door opens again. This time, Malik exits, followed by Seto Kaiba himself.

“If I had known my subordinates were wheeling and dealing through you, Keith Howard, I would’ve probably put my foot down earlier,” says Kaiba disdainfully in his perfect English.

“I didn’t know you two had a history,” Malik says, holding up his hands. “I'd have cut the middle man, had I known.”

“You’re a real son of a bitch, you know that, Ishtar?!” Keith snarls, jabbing a finger at him. “I did you a solid. You wouldn’t have gotten this far in Dubai without me!”

“You’re lucky I assigned you to Dubai after you ghosted on me in Duelist Kingdom,” Malik snaps. “I counted you dead until you came crawling back well after Battle City.”

“I—!"

“Speaking of Battle City, don’t forget that you and I have history, Malik,” Kaiba says, looking down his nose at the both of them. An incredible feat considering Keith is taller than him.

“Oh, you mean when I outranked you in your own tournament?” Malik smiles viciously, and Ryou can see the veins in Kaiba’s neck bulge. “If that’s the case, why don’t we settle this business decision with a contest?”

Malik's words were either magic or pure bait because Kaiba's mood shifts suddenly and favorably. “A duel?”

Malik's face lights up. “I noticed there was a racetrack under construction...”

-

Of course, Malik Ishtar could convince Seto Kaiba to agree to a motorcycle drag race.

And of  _course,_ Seto Kaiba has a Blue Eyes White Dragon motorcycle waiting for the occasion.

Bandit Keith started swearing up a storm when he realized the two teen proprietors were running off to ride their bikes, but one glare from Malik was enough to silence him. He left shortly with his tail between his legs. The sight of it is burned into Ryou’s memory. He really takes for granted how terrifying Malik can be. And  _was_ , clearly.

“Testing, Blue Eyes, one, two, three.” Kaiba’s voice bounces off the bleachers. “Isono, are you hearing this speaker quality? I'm making the final call. Tell Mokuba we're going with the Korean manufacturers.”

“Glad to be a part of the creative process,” Malik says dryly to the microphone in his helmet.

Kaiba’s Blue Eyes has the better build, accelerating from zero to sixty in no time, but Malik absolutely dominates the curves, sweeping them so tight he almost touches the ground. The whole thing takes less than ten minutes, and Malik wins by the light of sunset. Kaiba handles defeat about as well as he ever does.

“I demand a rematch.”

“I literally just reattached my sidecar, Kaiba.”

“This time, you won’t have the element of surprise on your side. You will have a rematch with me if you’re not a coward.” Ryou notes how the wind dramatically ruffles Kaiba’s coattails. “Or, we could fight like real men and  _duel.”_

Ryou glances between the two of them, but Malik merely grins and extends a hand. “How about next time we meet, we duel  _on_  motorcycles.”

Ryou snorts and tries to pass it off as a sneeze to be polite. He knows Malik doesn’t offer challenges, even as a joke, unless he has the edge—which means Malik has very possibly dueled on a motorcycle before. What  _hasn’t_  this guy done on motorcycle? That’s the real question.

Kaiba scowls at him, albeit thoughtfully, and says, “I’m going to need you to sign a creative waiver.”

Malik’s laughter quickly fades into disbelief when Isono pulls out forms from a briefcase and ushers him aside to a bench, “This way, Mr. Ishtar. You are free read it before you sign.”

Ryou is left alone with the CEO of KaibaCorp, and boy do they have nothing to talk about. Ryou doesn’t recall engaging in a single conversation with Seto Kaiba in the three years they’ve been in the same class. Ryou isn’t fond of small talk; he accidentally cultivated a mild-manner appearance, so people tend to balk when he says something creepy.

And Kaiba… Well, Kaiba doesn’t so much initiate conversations as he issues challenges.

“You certainly enjoy popping up where I least expect you, Bakura,” says Kaiba abruptly, with his usual amount of disdain. “I’d call you a barnacle latching onto whatever whale you can, like the rest of Yugi’s lackeys, but I can respect that you were one of the six quarterfinalists in Battle City.”

“Uhh, thanks,” Ryou cautiously accepts the praise.

Someone from his fanclub at school taped down the live broadcast of the Spirit's duel on the Battle Ship. That was the semester ‘gap moe’ entered the Ryou Bakura discourse at Domino High. It was also the first time Ryou saw the Spirit in the flesh—his flesh. It was creepy watching something wicked sink into his skin and wear him.

Ryou loves demonic possession movies, so naturally, he asked for a copy of the tape.

He watched it again after the Spirit was gone. He wasn’t really sure what he was looking for. Something familiar, maybe, but it’s uncanny how different the Spirit’s face looked from his own. He kept rewinding to where Rishid and the Spirit had their little powerplay, when the Spirit took over and demanded Yugi to attack. Ryou doesn’t want to keep dwelling on it, but his mind wanders sometimes. His memory is painful and fuzzy, but he remembers Malik was involved. Things hurt when Malik was involved.

Ryou would be a fool to forget that.

“I see you made up with Malik Ishtar since then,” Kaiba continues, blithely unaware of the situation and making assumptions, as usual. “He’s eccentric, but I’ll hand it to him, he’s almost brilliant for someone who started out with only the dirt under his nails. I suppose that’s how anyone gets their hands on two God Cards. Or defeats  _me,_ heh.”

Ryou tilts his head, unsure of where Kaiba is going with all this. The guy’s expressions tend to be unserviceably neutral, but judging by the awkward silence between them, Ryou suspects even he doesn’t know where he’s going either.

“Look. I never expected see you after Yugi’s little group disbanded, but now I wouldn't be surprised if our paths crossed again. Try not to become irrelevant until then.”

Kaiba walks away without so much as another glance as Malik rejoins Ryou, who is trying very hard to parse the sheer Kaibaness of that encounter.

Ryou turns to Malik and says, “Kaiba has a strange way of saying 'see you later.'”

Malik grins. “What do you expect from friends in high places?”

-

And then, surely not out of coincidence, Malik drags him to the top of the Kaibaland wheel.

It’s night, and the entirety of Dubai lies flat beneath them. It’s not as bright as Domino, but it twinkles between the darkness of the desert and the gulf. Malik points out the hotel Rishid was supposed to stay at, as well as the Burj al Arab a short distance away, the one with white cranes sprouting from its frame. Nearby are more buildings under construction, each aspiring to be the tallest of its kind. Dubai is going to look incredible in ten years, let alone twenty. It’s young and ambitious, with something to prove to the world. Ryou finally sees why it clicks with Malik.

“If I had been born here,” Malik says, gazing out at the growing city, “I would’ve descended from merchants who traversed the lands and seas. I  _wouldn’t_  have grown up underground guarding the tombs of forgotten kings.”

Ryou observes him sitting there, at ease, with one hand propping up his chin and the other resting on his knee. He wonders if Malik is still adjusting to the twentieth century. Malik seems to read the atmosphere. He looks to Ryou and smiles faintly.

“You have to understand. I grew up in the shadows of an Egypt that was gone before I was even born, so… it’s not as if modern Egypt has any real hold on me. The people, their religion, and their politics are so different, Bakura. I was raised different.”

“Yeah, I figured there was a lot you had to catch up to,” says Ryou. “And there’s a lot more going on in this decade, not to mention Y2K coming up next year…”

“No, no. That’s another thing altogether.”

“Eh? Then… what is it you don’t understand?” asks Ryou, and Malik looks back outside, frowning.

“What are people supposed to do with their lives? When I was born, I was to carry the Pharaoh’s memories until I died. When I left the tombs with Rishid, I wanted to take the Pharaoh’s place.” Malik rubs the bridge of his nose, frustrated. “But now that I’m just another person in the crowd, who am I supposed to be? What can I possibly do for my family, now that we no longer have a grand purpose to fulfill?”

Ryou didn’t know Malik as Isis and Rishid knew him. He didn’t know Malik at his most bitter and hateful either. He can only glean so much from the Spirit’s memories, which were self-serving at best, and the Malik that the Spirit wanted was bold and decisive, even when he was vulnerable.

The Malik sitting before Ryou, staring down at the lights in Dubai, stuck between his family’s past and the overwhelming present, is none of them. This Malik is an ordinary young man. He doesn’t know what choice to make because there are so many. It’s moments like these that make Ryou feel there’s a human connection between them after all, despite what happened.

“That’s why I’m taking a gap year,” Ryou says, stretching his arms and legs. “I haven’t a clue what I’ll do with my life either.”

Malik looks up at him. “You don’t?”

“I don’t even know where to begin thinking about a family, and I’m not Yugi or Kaiba or Jounouchi, who have interests that they can make a living from,” Ryou explains, idly counting off his fingers. “I have hobbies but none that I want to turn into a career. I’d rather keep doing what I’ve always done, but since I’m a proper adult, I’ll have to make money to support myself.”

Malik brushes it aside with a wave. “Just stay with me.”

Ryou sits back, grinning. “Oh yeah?”

“I have loads of money,” says Malik. “And we have a lot of fun together, right? It makes sense that we stick together, if neither of us know where we’re headed.”

Ryou can see where Kaiba’s respect comes from. Malik literally started with nothing, not even a functioning grasp of how the modern world works, yet he built himself an illegal empire by the time he was sixteen. Granted, he had the Millennium Rod to oil the wheels of his machinations and Rishid to take care of the rest, but Malik still created a passive cash flow system that he barely needs to keep tabs on. Truly, an enviable feat on par with a Kaiba maneuver.

“Besides, you have  _his_  memories, don’t you?” Malik looks back out the window, the color rising to his cheeks. “You said they were about me. You  _know_ , don’t you…?”

 _Ah_. Malik is offering an exchange of sorts. Somehow, Ryou isn’t surprised.

If he were sixteen, Ryou would have laughed and said, “Sure!” He would have been thankful to not need explanations. He would have been relieved that the Spirit’s actions finally landed him something good, something to delay his inevitable march into an average adulthood.

But he’s eighteen, and what he finally has now is a taste of independence. He’s making all his own decisions for the first time in his life. He no longer has to deal with the Spirit’s messes. Even if they are good and interesting.  _So goddamn interesting_.

No, Ryou says, “I do have his memories, but I can handle them. I won't be so easily controlled anymore.”

Malik looks as though he'd been slapped. Ryou fights the urge to apologize on the spot because even if he was brusque, he didn't say anything wrong. It's true he doesn’t want to hurt Malik, but he knows he can’t give Malik more than an inch without the risk of losing a mile. Ryou knows him well enough to be wary when his expression turns unreadable. “You’re free to make your own choices. I don’t control you. I don’t have the Millennium Rod anymore.”

“I’m not saying you are,” says Ryou, a little confused by how Malik took the conversation. “I only meant that I want to live my life on my own terms, not as another accessory to your life, or whatever the Spirit may have promised you.”

Malik blinks those bright lavender eyes. For a second, Ryou thinks he’s going to get angry, but Malik smiles, almost in relief. “Oh,” he says. “Is that it?”

And the conversation ends there.

Something about that cool, detached response sends a shiver down Ryou’s spine. It leaves Ryou feeling cold after their cabin reaches the ground.

-

Malik walks briskly, dialing Rishid’s number on his cell phone. Ryou follows a few steps behind. He's mindful of the tense aura emanating from Malik like a dark cloud. Ryou knows he said the wrong thing, but it wasn’t unreasonable. He’s always followed his instincts when he could, even if they made no sense to his friends, even if they were idiotic—even if it means blowing off a gorgeous sugar daddy his own age.

Okay, Ryou might really be an idiot, but after Battle City, some of his more unusual interactions with Malik Ishtar, and hell, throw in this weird, horny dream message system from the Spirit, he knows he needs to maintain boundaries between Malik and himself. He might want to know what makes Malik tick, but curiosity killed the cat, and Ryou is at least smarter than that.

“Malik? Where are you?”

Rishid’s voice is a tinny buzz from Malik’s phone. Ryou looks up, over Malik’s shoulder, and sees the eldest Ishtar in the distance, almost obscured by the night crowd, holding hands with a woman. She’s pretty, nearly as tall as Rishid, with a fringe of brown hair peeking below her dark blue headscarf. She smiles up at him cheerfully, clearly about to meet Malik for the first time.

 _Oh,_  thinks Ryou. That’s why Rishid didn’t join them on their way to Kaibaland.

Malik presses the end call button and pockets his phone. He turns around without a word and walks past Ryou. His eyes are icy. Ryou glances back to Rishid, who stares down at his phone in concern.

“Malik?” Ryou goes after Malik, who walks with the focus of a man possessed, elbowing past people on their way to see the fireworks. “Hey, Malik…”

But Malik keeps going.

Ryou follows him to a secluded bench past the Ferris wheel, hidden in shadows and possibly the worst spot in Kaibaland to watch the nightly fireworks. Malik staggers to a crouch, pressing his forehead against the heels of his hands, his breathing shallow.

“Hey,” says Ryou again, glancing back to where they left Rishid. “Do you wanna talk?”

“…Talk?”

“Yeah, it’s okay. I’m here. It’s just the two of us.”

_“Us.”_

Malik’s voice is husky, but not with sadness or anger or anything else Ryou was expecting. He sounds, oddly enough,  _amused_.

“I thought you didn’t want to be an accessory in my life, Bakura. I thought you wanted to leave, not  _talk.”_

“Ah.” Ryou pockets his hands with a shrug and a wry smile. So, Malik was angry after all. “Come on, I wasn’t going to ditch you here.”

“Why not? Isis and even Rishid have moved on with their own lives. What is it about Malik Isthar that’s worth staying for? Is it money?” Malik looks back over his shoulder. His smile lacks his usual charm. “Or is it sex? That’s what you saw in that fool’s memories, right? Tell me I’m right.”

“L-look, I don’t want to be your friend for your money. And I’m… I’m not the Spirit,” says Ryou. He runs his fingers through his hair, unable to stop an uneasy smile from tightening his jaw. “I like getting to know you.”

And Ryou means it. He’s drawn to Malik in a way that he’s been trying to rationalize since the first day in Cairo. Ryou likes him, his charisma, his willingness to take Ryou’s hand and go somewhere new and wonderful because it’s simply the next adventure.

He likes Malik. Ryou  _likes_  Malik.

But he doesn’t know if Malik will ever see him as anything more than the Spirit’s vessel, so he’s happy to just have  _fun_  with Malik. For the moment, of course, but maybe not much longer because Ryou does have a life he intends to get back to, though Malik’s is far more exciting. But he shouldn't think like that.

“I think you’re interesting,” says Ryou instead. It’s for the best that he doesn’t say more.

Malik hums a low note of acknowledgment. He takes a seat on the bench and beckons for Ryou to join him. Ryou walks forward slowly, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand as if there were static in the air. Something about Malik’s mannerisms is off. Something about the way he talks, the way he chuckles, the way he stares at Ryou—it’s all  _off_.

Fireworks burst in the sky.

Ryou looks away for a second, and Malik grabs him by the hair. Ryou grunts when his head hits the wooden planks. Sparks explode in his vision.

And  _fuck._  It  _hurts_.

He sees Malik—a dark shadow above him, his earrings flickering by the light of the fireworks, those sharp eyes now lidded, hazy, and smug.

“Lucky you,” Malik says as a shower of gold explodes above them. His hands wrap snugly around Ryou’s neck, fingers flexing playfully through his white hair. They’re warm hands, as warm as they’ve always been, even as Malik says, “You get to see just how  _interesting_  Malik Ishtar is before you die.”

This man is full of surprises.

Ryou is light-headed. He can hardly hear his own heartbeat over the bursts and crackles above them. He reaches up past Malik’s yellow bangs, tracing the edges of his face and marveling at how different this Malik looks from the other. It’s the same person— _the same body._  So weird. So incredibly, unusually  _weird_.

And Ryou didn't know.

Ryou wants to know  _everything_  about Malik. He wants to touch every inch of him that the Spirit did because it's not fair that he hid Malik from Ryou. Maybe if Malik had been able to meet Ryou, Malik would have... Ryou wouldn't have been just a placeholder for the Spirit. That’s what Ryou’s subconscious has been telling him since they met in Egypt: they’re the same, Ryou and Malik. Each possessed by a malevolent mind, but neither of them are pure and perfect on their own either.

_There’s an overlap._

The Egyptian smiles archly into his palm and purrs, “What? Do you have a death wish?”

Ryou can’t stop grinning. Curiosity killed the cat, but maybe he isn’t any smarter after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I think it deserves to be mentioned that Malik in the manga was the first to duel on a motorcycle (the one where Yami Yugi won Osiris/Slifer). 
> 
> Also, I know Pegasus killed Bandit Keith in the manga, but he was revived in _Yu-Gi-Oh R,_ so I guess that makes this fic _YGO R_ -compliant!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, kudos and comments are deeply appreciated. You can follow me on twitter [**@goodnightwrite.**](https://twitter.com/goodnightwrite)


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